


Wings

by ProphetChuckStone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Artists, Fallen Castiel, In need of Artwork!, M/M, Not Beta Read, Pain, Tattoos, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:50:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProphetChuckStone/pseuds/ProphetChuckStone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since purgatory they had been plaguing his semiconscious brain. In the mornings when he squinted at Castiel just right, he swore he could see them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wings

He couldn’t help himself.  
Ever since purgatory they had been plaguing his semiconscious brain. In the mornings when he squinted at Castiel just right, he swore he could see them. He had taken to doodling poor imitations on the fine pages of motel bibles, squeezing them between the ever-present genitalia and derogatory remarks.  
In the beginning he just left them there, hoping somebody may find some hope from the crude scratching, some stranger who had no idea who he was so could not judge him. About a month ago he had given in to the subliminal need to draw and perfect by using the only paper he could find in his wallet.  
Whenever the angel left he would delicately unfold the lightly crumpled paper and fiddle carefully with the soft lines. Only in Cas’ absence could he truly recall every detail of every feather.  
He was almost sure that they were perfect: but only the angel himself could be certain. But when the moment came for him to reveal his biggest secret; the angel fell.  
It had taken him days to find him and then weeks to nurse him back to some semblance of health. Even so, all the ex-angel did was eat and sleep, not a single syllable had slipped from his tear puckered mouth. Although Sam fought that all Cas needed was time to recuperate, Dean knew better. Dean knew that he needed some form of physical pain to break him from his trance. And that is how they had ended up here.  
Dean couldn’t help himself but smile at Cas, laid face down of the supple leather chair, barring his teeth at the growls of pleasurable pain forcing their way out of him. The anti-possession sigil had only taken 30 minutes or so to emblazon between his shoulder blades and Cas had taken that without remark. What was killing him were Dean’s presents.  
It had taken him awhile to track down someone capable and willing enough to do the job, and it was costing him more money than a month of gas for his baby, but it was worth it.  
After a gruelling 8 hour session the tattooist snapped off a few shots of his greatest work and Castiel was released onto the world once more. Dean beckoned Cas over to the mirror but he refused to look, instead, he picked up his shirt and laid face down in the back seat of the impala, silent once more.  
Dean paid and gracefully thanked the artist before returning his broken angel to the bat cave. Once there Castiel shuffled off to his room, to collapse on his bed.  
On hearing the quiet ruckus, Sam emerged, “What took you guys so long? I thought you’d only be an hour.”  
“Well, I thought a side project might help, but he refused to look at it so I have no idea if it was a waste of money yet. At least he felt something though.”  
“What do you mean ‘side project’?” Dean extricated his phone from his pocket, brought up the newest image and handed it over to his brother. “Shit Dean! Are they actually his?”  
“They look almost perfect to me,” Dean was now comparing the photo to his sketches.  
“Well, what did HE say?”  
“He’s refusing to look.”  
“Just give him time Dean. He’ll come back eventually.”  
It was 9 days before Castiel emerged again. Dean knew that he had been squirreling away food, but never had he imagined enough for him to hold out this long. When he finally appeared it was at 3am, Dean’s usual drunken-mess time, but for once he had decided to remain sober, and was granted the sight of his angel disappearing into the kitchen. He decided to follow.  
Dean was greeted with the sight of a bed-sore ridden man, huddled over a stacked plate of hamburgers, lit by the gentle glow of the open refrigerator.  
“Damn it Cas,” the plate crashed to the floor. “What did I tell you about treating the ink? You have to cover it in the gel or it gets infected like this.” Dean grabbed Cas’ forearm and jerked him into the bathroom, flicking the light switch, bathing them in its harsh white light.  
The ex-angel keeps his eyes and mouth firmly shut.  
Dean, realizing that he’s going to have to sort this himself, drops Castiel on the side of the tub facing the wall and starts running cold water through the sink. He carefully soaks their softest towel and begins to dab at the sore skin, wiping aware the oozing pus with as much delicacy as his calloused hands can muster. It takes time and despite his numbness, Castiel’s scrunched-up face contorts in pain. As soon as the sores have stopped leaking Dean reaches into the medicine cabinet and retrieves the unopened jar of gel.  
Fighting back his anger, Dean slathers the gunk over the angels back causing an inadvertent sigh of relief to spill from his lips and his eyes to flutter open slightly. Noting this positive response, Dean continued to work the gloop into his shoulder blades, earning coos of pleasure for his trouble.  
Whom ever had designed this bathroom had to be one paranoid son-of-a-bitch because every wall was a floor to ceiling mirror. Too many horror movies Dean thought, but it allowed him to see the ex-angels eyes flutter further open with each of his gentle rubs, so he carried on long after the gunk had soaked in.  
With each manipulated muscle he brought the zombie back to life; carefully draining each ounce of stress and tension from his bones. After a while Cas’ eyes seemed alive enough for Dean to start tracing his fingers cautiously up and down his new decal. The ex-angel’s eyes fluttered slightly at the new and lightly wandering touch, pupils regaining clarity whilst the iris’ gained their usual sky-like lustre.  
It seemed to take a while for him to focus on his new location. Slowly the piercing blue gaze dropped from his chest, past the bathtub to reach straight ahead into the mirror, cautiously avoiding finding Deans. It took him a few moments to notice he was shirtless, but the second realization dawned upon him he turned like a shot, instantly standing chest to chest with Dean.  
But his eyes still lay elsewhere.  
Due to his new position standing inside the bath, Castiel was raised several inches off the floor, causing his gaze to fall over Dean’s head and into the mirror on the opposite wall. This new vantage point afforded him the unavoidable view of his own back.  
He threw Dean aside, ignoring the whimpers as he stepped across the fragile human body now lying spread eagled on the floor.  
He was transfixed.  
“Impossible.” The rough baritone filled the room with its usual malice. “I fell, they should have disintegrated.” Slowly he rolls his shoulders in an effort to spread his latent wings.  
They didn’t move.  
“It’s a tattoo Cas,” a suddenly meek voice called up from the floor, “I don’t know what I was thinking. We can get them removed if you’d like?”  
The statuesque figure turned his head slightly and finally met the eyes he had been avoiding.  
“No.” He reached down and captured the hunter’s wrists in tight grip, lifting him off the floor.  
“Cas?”  
“These are my wings. How?” The blue eyes pierced into Dean’s in his old soul-searching way.  
“I haven’t been able to stop dreaming of them since I thought I lost you in purgatory, I missed them and thought you might want them back. I was being selfish.” The subtle undertones of the words caused Dean to blush a bright shade of puce and drop his eyes to the floor, avoiding Cas’ stare. He was instantly released and began rubbing the feeling into his blood drained fingers.  
Silence flooded the room and, for a moment, Dean thought Cas must have used some last dredge of angel mojo to poof himself away. It took him an age to realise that the ex-angel had curled himself into a ball at the bottom of the bathtub; wings to the sky and was silently bawling his eyes out.  
Dean stared on dazedly for a minute before climbing into the tub, crouching in front of him and lazily laying the ex-angel’s head on his own lap. Slowly he leaned over, resting his forehead against the exposed neck and began to trace the soft white feathers imprinted into the prostrate back before him, taking care to smooth each vigilantly before moving on to the next. He took his time, flowing from the purest white ones framing the wings scalloped edges, further inward to the fluffy pale blue ones filtering into the harsh vibrant blue feathers flailing at the base of his back.  
They were truly magnificent.  
Each stroke seemed to calm Cas’ sobbing slightly, and so Dean continued long into the night.  
And even though months have passed since his angel lost his grace and Cas managed to stop crying, Dean still finds him looking in the mirror at his wings. So proud of his replacements, that even when the time comes when his grace is returned, Dean knows he will keep them. A constant reminder that someone needed him enough to sacrifice the back of a special photograph, and pour over it every night of his absence, just to keep him close.


End file.
